


The Relative Safety of Windows and Their Sills

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Getting Together, Letters, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Voyeurism, dub-con due to the nature of voyeurism, getting caught in the act
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27039745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: In which discoveries that should perhaps have been obvious are made, falls are taken, and concerns about privacy are left woefully unexamined.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 52
Kudos: 76





	1. Russandol's window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mc_dude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mc_dude/gifts).



> Thanks to the Russingon Discord server for cheering me on with this, love y'all <3 And a special thanks to mc-dude whose ideas inspired this to begin with!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Findekáno discovers that Maitimo’s windowsill is not, in fact, a safe place upon which to loiter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch1: Content warning for Maitimo angsting about not being good enough and thinking he’s an awful person for wanting Finno. No homophobia, though, and Finno will in due time rightly proclaim all of that utter nonsense.
> 
> And throughout: warning for dub-con because, y’know, voyeurism.

**PART THE FIRST: in which Findekáno discovers that Maitimo’s windowsill is not, in fact, a safe place upon which to loiter**

Maitimo groaned and rolled over in his bed, his face in his pillow. He was far too tense to sleep, having spent a long day corralling his younger siblings (even the ones who _should know better, Kano_ ) from interrupting their parents, who were in the midst of a very important creative project. To make matters worse, once he’d _finally_ gotten them all to bed and turned in himself... Well, Findekáno had promised to visit in the hour after the Mingling, and he had not shown.

Disappointment curled in his stomach alongside frustration and guilt. He knew that Findekáno had a life and responsibilities and younger siblings of his own, and these things happened. But it had been a week since he’d last seen his friend, and Maitimo had spent more time than he’d like to admit daydreaming about seeing him again—talking, playing their convoluted and ever-evolving game of cards; perhaps, if the night ran long, falling asleep together in the same bed...

Findekáno was his best friend, he reminded himself. Findekáno was his cousin. Findekáno was his former student in languages and letters. That was as far as their relationship went, and as far as it would ever go. It didn’t matter the way his laughter brought a lightness to Maitimo’s spirit, or the softness of his skin as their hands brushed, or how breathtaking he looked in that outfit that showed just a slip of his belly and emphasized the curve of his ass—

None of that mattered, he thought miserably, because even if Maitimo had been in love with Findekáno for over a decade, it was utterly impossible his feelings were returned. And even if they _were_ — But no. He would not go there, not tonight.

Except that despite how exhausted he was physically, his mind was a tangle of anxious thoughts, of Findekáno and his parents’ project and the prospect of another tiresome day like this one to come once Laurelin waxed again. Sleep, however much he needed it, evaded him, and yet he was not quite awake enough to do anything else.

Well. There was one thing that always helped him fall asleep...

He shouldn’t; he knew he shouldn’t. But his resolve was weak, and he knew that if Findekáno had come and left as they had planned, he would not be able to resist anyway, no matter how wrong it was. And—well, if he could not have Finno in reality, surely the only harm to come of his perverted imagination would be to himself.

Maitimo rolled over once more, lying now on his back. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, letting his hand wander down to his thighs, slipping into his loose sleep pants.

 _Russo,_ he imagined Findekáno saying, mischief dancing in his bright blue eyes. He would mean it innocently—Maitimo was not yet quite desperate enough to sink as low as envisioning Findekáno engaged in baser actions—but he would tilt his head and raise his perfectly-shaped eyebrows in that way that made Maitimo’s heart squeeze, and then laugh that laugh he wanted so badly to taste in his own mouth, and lean in to whisper some trivial secret to his friend—his best friend—his breath ghosting against Maitimo’s ear...

He felt a shiver trail through his body, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end as it passed, and the imagined feeling of Finno pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his ear—or even gifting him with a sharp bite—quickly sent blood rushing to his groin.

It was wrong to think this way about Findekáno, let alone to act upon it—but Maitimo had long since realized there was something crooked in his fëa. He had none of his family’s creative talent; he felt the weight of every disappointment so heavy in his heart that he barely know how he got through each day; he was only good for looking after the more gifted people around him...and, of course, he had this unhealthy desire for Findekáno.

Perfect, beautiful, kind, clever, charming Findekáno. Of course Maitimo had fallen in love with him—who wouldn’t?—but Finno was his _cousin_ , his _younger_ cousin—and surely he was alone in this awful need—in the way the slightest touch from Finno set him ablaze—

If Findekáno knew—and he _never could_ ; Maitimo could not bear to ruin their friendship, nor seduce him into something he would later regret—but if Finno knew, there was some small part of Maitimo that hoped he would reassure him that this was normal, that his feelings were only natural, nothing to be ashamed of. Were they for anyone else, perhaps Maitimo _could_ confide in him—but they were not, and so he was left only guessing and conjuring up sweet words from that beloved voice, words that only encouraged him to stroke his hardening length and begin to lose himself in pleasure.

It was, perhaps, a good thing that Findekáno had not shown up as he’d promised, Maitimo thought distantly as he took himself in hand. At least he had not been presented with any new temptations...

* * *

Findekáno was quiet as a cat as he snuck into Fëanáro’s garden and made his way toward the tree beside Russandol’s bedroom window. His uncle’s house was asleep, yes, but it did not do to be uncautious. Especially since he’d nearly been caught slipping away from his own home, and had to spend an hour coming up with excuses for Turukáno as to why he needed to “visit the stables” so urgently at such a late hour.

As a result he had missed the appointment he’d set with Russandol—but he had, at last, escaped his brother’s scrutiny, and it was not as if he’d never been late before. Russo would be waiting for him, he was sure of it—he was always sure when it came to Russo.

Well. Except for one thing. He still could not decipher if Russandol returned the feelings of love and desire that kept Findekáno up at night. Sometimes, the way he felt his friend’s gaze linger upon him, his slight exhalation when Findekáno leaned into his touch, the feel of his arms around him when they dozed off together on those increasingly rare occasions they had nothing to worry about save each other... Yes, sometimes, Findekáno thought—hoped—dreamed—that Russandol loved him...but he did not know, not for certain, and in this one area Findekáno would not valiantly rush in. No, his relationship with dear, lovely Russandol was too precious to risk on the half-delusion of a romance returned.

He turned these thoughts over in his mind with some melancholy as he climbed the tree that would allow him access to the windowsill outside Russandol’s room. He was well-practiced in this feat, and only made the slightest sounds as he moved, no more than the faint rustle of leaves that could easily have been the wind.

Once he was inside, they would speak in low voices, discuss politics and craft and literature and family, until the Treelight grew golden and Findekáno would need to slip away back home. They would both be tired from a sleepless night, but for Findekáno it was always worth it—he cherished the moments of calm companionship he spent with Russandol, and would not trade them for anything.

Russo’s windowsill was wide—widened specifically for him, in fact. As a younger nér, before their fathers had begun to quarrel in earnest, Findekáno had not needed to sneak about as he did now. Russo had been his tutor, his friend, his kind elder cousin—and yes, the first and truest object of his affections, but Finno had not at the time put much stock in _that_.

Not until he grew too big to sit on the windowsill without modifications Russandol graciously undertook for his sake, and Findekáno watched the sweat on his skin glisten in the Treelight and felt a stirring deep within him that was something more than he had felt before—not until he caught Russandol staring at him as he danced with his sister at a family party—not until every brush of their fingers made Russo’s breath catch and he would draw away, but not after a moment’s hesitation...

But each of Russo’s actions that gave him the slightest hope had perfectly reasonable alternate explanations, and Findekáno firmly reminded himself that above all else he prized Russandol’s friendship. He could not bear to lose that in a botched confession of love.

Softly, he leapt the short distance from the tree to the windowsill. He caught his balance, waited for his heartbeat to steady, and peered into Russandol’s room—only for his breath to flee him entirely as he beheld the shocking, glorious sight before him.

The shutters were open, but the curtains almost fully drawn; yes, Russo had indeed been waiting for him. But—but—but if Russandol had been waiting, then surely he would have found something less _sensual_ with which to distract himself—surely he would not want Findekáno to catch him in the midst of such a private act as _this_ —

(Unless he _did_ , some part of him whispered giddily; unless this was some strange new method of seduction...!)

A slight breeze fluttered through the curtains, displacing them just enough for Findekáno to catch another glimpse of Russandol stretched out across his bed, sweat gathering on his brow, his trousers pushed down from his thighs and those lovely, large fingers stroking across the head of his cock. And the _sounds_ —once Finno heard past the suddenly-frantic beating of his own heart, those noises were unmistakable. Soft moans, sweeter than any of Makalaurë’s compositions, the slick slide of flesh on flesh, a mumbled curse—a whispered _name_ —

Findekáno had hardened the instant he realized what was going on, but as _his own name_ spilled wantonly from Russandol’s lips, a shock of arousal stabbed through him so strongly that he nearly fell off the windowsill. Shakily, he braced himself against the wall with his left hand; with his right, he could not help but slip his fingers into his trousers and around his own cock, biting his lip to stay silent.

It was wrong, he knew, to stay and watch and even join in without Russandol being aware—but he wanted, he wanted so _badly_ —he needed to hear Russo gasp his name again—and if Russo truly _did_ want him, too, surely this was not much different than it would be if they were finding their pleasure together? Surely if Russo did know, it would be alright?

And yet he did _not_ make his presence known, instead timing his movements to the heavenly noises Russandol was making, thrusting into his fist, imagining that Russo’s heady gaze was upon him—

“Findekáno,” Russandol moaned again. “Ai, _Finno_...”

That voice, so laden with _want_ —oh, Russandol could undo him even with but a laugh or a glance, but to hear his cousin consumed with such desire—desire for _him_ —

To Findekáno’s disappointment, Russandol stifled his noises, his groans hushed, with no more words, as if he realized he needed to keep quiet. For—the window was open, and though the house was abed, his brothers were still within...

Findekáno imagined Russandol pausing in his task, rising from his bed, going to shut the window—and _seeing_ him, still fisting his cock, Russo’s name barely bitten back—

He stuffed his other hand into his mouth to stifle a moan of his own. Inside, Russo gave one final grunt—then sighed. Findekáno could not see, not without revealing himself, but he imagined those silver eyes almost black with lust, fluttering closed, as that long, gorgeous cock, only so briefly beheld, spurted seed across his sheets...

It was that mental image that pushed Findekáno over the edge. He came into his fist, swallowing a cry, not caring that he’d soiled his trousers and gotten his palm sticky. The relief was immediate, and though he barely understood what had just happened—had he _truly_ heard Russandol whispering his name in the throes of passion, or had he imagined it?—a lightness filled his chest such that he thought he could fly.

Unfortunately, however, he was not so beloved of Manwë that he sprouted wings upon taking too generous a step back and toppling off the windowsill. It took everything in him not to yelp in surprise, and he was fortunate a yet-unplanted garden bed of soft dirt was there to break his fall. Still, he let out quite an unprincely grunt as he landed, and he knew his back would be sore for some days.

“Hm?” came a voice from up above, and a shock of terror pierced Findekáno like a blade. Valar—if Russandol caught him—if he _knew_ —well, perhaps it would not be _so_ bad, but—

He scrambled out of the dirt and crouched behind the wide tree trunk just in time to avoid being seen as that dearly-beloved head poked out the window.

“Hello?” Russandol called sharply. “Is anyone there?”

Findekáno trembled, but said nothing.

“...Finno?” Russo asked, softer this time, almost hopefully, but with a little embarrassment—and Findekáno knew he would be mortified if he discovered how long he’d been listening in...

A long pause, and then a sigh that turned into a yawn. “I suppose he really isn’t coming after all,” he murmured to himself. “Come now, Maitimo, he has a life of his own...and at least...” He chuckled darkly, and Findekáno felt another pang of lust and longing burn in his chest. _At least he does not know I was touching myself and thinking of him,_ Findekáno guessed at his thought. Except he _did_ know, and wanted more...but he felt his own embarrassment rising, and empathized with Russo’s relief.

“Well,” Russandol said loudly, “if there _is_ anyone there I’ll have you know my father does not suffer trespassers lightly. And neither do I.”

 _Unless they are me,_ Findekáno thought, head spinning.

But he said nothing of the sort, and it seemed Russandol was satisfied after that pronouncement, for he closed the window altogether and drew the curtains once more, leaving Findekáno alone with his thoughts and the mess he’d made in his trousers.

 _He...he wants me,_ he said to himself with no amount of awe. _He—does he love me? As I love him? Does—if he knew how I felt, would he—_

Findekáno rose, wiping his sticky hand on his already-ruined trousers, and turned to walk back home. He knew he would scarcely be able to think of anything else for days, and now that his own yearning seemed on the verge of fulfillment, perhaps he would be so occupied until he confessed to Russo all that he felt...and all that he had seen and done.

Unless—and suddenly he grinned as an idea struck him—unless he could coax _Russandol_ into confessing first. He would need to send some apology for “missing” their nighttime tryst, and perhaps if he played his cards right, as he was getting better at doing in their game together...

Well, at least Findekáno’s bedroom was safely on the ground level. If Russandol somehow found himself distracted outside his window, there would be no risk of such a fall as Findekáno had taken this night.


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which letters are exchanged, and the subject of safety in relation to windows level to the ground is first broached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very brief interlude, sorry it’s not longer...but I’ve also updated my [Russingon drabble collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24863605), so go check that out if you want more of these two!

**INTERLUDE: in which letters are exchanged, and the subject of safety in relation to windows level to the ground is first broached**

_Dear Russandol,_

_My deepest apologies for not showing up to your home last night at the appointed hour. My brother—Turukáno, of course; sweet little Arno would never—told my parents of my late night wanderings, though thankfully he is yet oblivious as to_ where _it is I wander, and though I am seven years past my majority, I am being kept under strict watch. Alas for the protective love of my father, and the generous anxiety of my mother—and most of all, of course, for the nosiness of my uptight brother!_

_I miss your company already, and mourn that I was unable to best you in our game of cards—do not roll your eyes, I almost had you last time!_

_Still...it is my door that is guarded, not my window, and though I would surely be caught should I escape through it and beyond, perhaps a visitor might sneak hither to join me in my isolation... The midnight hour would be most agreeable, should a wandering rogue chance to pass my way. It cannot be safe, truly, to be so exposed to any passers-by with unknown intentions!_

_With all my endless love,  
_ _Findekáno Astaldo Ñolofinwion_

* * *

_Finno—_

_This is why I never tell my brothers anywhere (or when!) I am going. I missed you last night, of course, but I must admit I was quite exhausted and would not have made very good company. Perhaps you_ would _have won our game, if only because I would have been too tired to notice you cheating!_

_I will endeavour to be more awake tonight when I take my midnight stroll. Your concerns about the relative safety of your window are not to be taken lightly, dear Findekáno! I will, perhaps, keep guard over you that your princely slumber may not be disturbed by any ‘wandering rogues.’_

_Love,  
_ _your Russo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will be up tomorrow :)


	3. Findekáno’s window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maitimo discovers that windows, when left open, allow sights and sounds to travel both ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for Finno briefly misunderstanding Maitimo’s angst and worrying a Situation™ was less consensual than it actually was. Everything gets cleared up quickly, though.

**PART THE LAST: in which Maitimo discovers that windows, when left open, allow sights and sounds to travel both ways**

Findekáno had never before been quite so nervous as he was this night. He retired to bed early, complaining to his family of an aching stomach and head, and it was not entirely a façade. His mind spun and his gut churned—who knew that planning a seduction could be quite so _nervewracking_!

He could quite easily call it all off—he could simply greet Russandol normally, not mention the previous night’s incident nor incite one of his own... But the thought of locking his heart once more to the only nér to whom he wished to reveal its depths made him ache with a long-repressed sorrow, all the more bitter from the hope he now carefully nurtured.

He knew he had not misheard: Russo had cried _his name_ as he touched himself. Russo wanted him. And he wanted _Russo_ , so much that the thought of _having_ him at long last made him dizzy with elation…and what was more, he knew his friend well. Russandol needed to be coaxed into admitting his feelings—he needed the assurance Findekáno now had—he needed it to be clear that _yes_ , it was alright ( _more_ than alright!) to desire Findekáno, and this was the swiftest way Findekáno could scheme up a resolution to all of that in sum.

So despite his anxieties, he took a deep breath and prepared himself. He lit a candle in his room, took a bath, dressed in a loose robe, drank some tea, and waited for midnight—and Russandol—(and, he hoped, himself)—to come.

* * *

As soon as Maitimo arrived outside Findekáno’s window, he realized something was...off. He paused, listening with a frown to the low noises coming from within—and to his great shame, his body recognized the sounds before he did.

 _What—?_ he wondered briefly, and felt himself flush and his gut stir, and then—

“ _Ohhh_ ,” moaned Findekáno, and Maitimo’s mind went blank.

For a brief, horrifying moment he considered the possibility that Finno’s letter had not been fully in jest, that there truly _was_ some vagabond visiting him in the night—but that was absurd, he thought giddily, trying to quash the eruption of jealousy within him. If Finno were... _involved_ with someone, the first person he would tell was Maitimo, and he’d heard naught of such a thing.

But—then either Findekáno had fallen into a particularly intense dream, or he was engaged in—in—

In the same act he himself had indulged in the night previous, with Finno on his mind...with, he admitted, Finno’s sweet name on his lips.

Maitimo should go. He should leave, turn around, fake some excuse for having missed their appointment—

Oh, _no_. Had he missed it? Or was he early? But Maitimo prided himself on punctuality; indeed, he’d arrived at precisely the midnight hour. So unless _Finno_ had forgotten—

A particularly loud groan interrupted his stream of thought, and Maitimo felt his knees go weak. He leaned against the windowsill, absurdly grateful that Finno’s room was on the ground floor, and bit his lip.

He should— Certainly he _shouldn’t_ —

“Yes,” gasped Findekáno, and through the thin curtains backlit by a candle within Maitimo saw his shadow sit upright, and heard the repetitive motion of palm on flesh—

“Oh, I wish...” Finno murmured, just loud enough for him to make out. “I wish you were here, with me...”

 _Ai_ , but there was an _object_ to his affections, a name to his fantasy. Furiously Maitimo pressed the heel of his palm against the bulge in his breeches, mortified that such a thought aroused him further. Either Findekáno was in love with _someone else_ , a thought Maitimo selfishly could not bear, or—or perhaps he wanted—

 _No_ , he told himself, but even as he did his hands pulled at the laces of his breeches and before he knew it he was tugging his cock desperately, hanging on to every whispered endearment and pretending Finno meant them all for him.

It was wrong, horribly wrong, not only to desire his younger cousin but to think of him in the throes of lust—and _especially_ it was wrong to do so right outside Findekáno’s window, taking advantage of his friend’s distraction—

Unless Finno _had_ wished him to come over now, just to hear this, just to—but that was beyond absurd, and even should Finno want him (his heart leapt and his cock jerked at the thought) it would be his responsibility as the elder cousin to turn him down gently, to set him free to search for the _true_ love of his life, not wallow in this perverted, youthful fantasy—

“Oh, Russandol,” Findekáno cried—and before he could stifle himself Maitimo let out a low moan of his own—more a rumble, really—and tipped over the edge.

“ _Yes!_ ” Finno gasped, and in his awful daze Maitimo heard the splatter of seed upon bare flesh, and knew that Finno, too, had found his release.

His knees gave way and he fell forward, banging his head on the windowsill, and for just a moment the world went white. As soon as he could he scrambled back, having fallen on his ass without any dignity, beyond mortified and half considering fleeing not just back to his home but to Endórë or even further—but before he could run away and hide his shame, the curtains flew open, and Findekáno looked down upon him, catching him in this most shameful of all acts.

Finno was more beautiful and debauched than even Maitimo’s most vivid fantasies, his cheeks flushed and his eyes dark, his silk robe spread to reveal a glorious expanse of warm brown skin, white fluid staining his chest. Maitimo gaped up at him from his spot on the ground, failing both to hide his own renewed arousal and to avoid staring at Finno’s. His friend was still half-hard, and the smile upon his face was so utterly unabashed that Maitimo could almost believe he had heard truly when he’d hallucinated Findekáno crying out his name.

“Finno, I—” he croaked, but words failed him utterly. The evidence was plain; his hand dripped with his own come, his cock poked through his hastily-unlaced breeches, curving traitorously upwards as Findekáno looked upon him like—like he was a delectable feast—

Oh, but this was all he’d ever wanted, and the light in Finno’s eyes seemed to echo that mad desire back at him, and a horrible, wild hope seized Maitimo and would not let him go.

“I knew it,” Findekáno breathed. “I knew you wanted me too. Russo, I...”

Maitimo let out a broken sob, his resolve failing, and he crawled to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I shouldn’t—”

“—you shouldn’t stand outside like this, where anyone could see you,” Findekáno said firmly. “Come now, Russandol. It’s warmer in here.”

He shouldn’t, he _should not_ —but then Findekáno trailed a finger through the mess on his chest and pressed it to Maitimo’s lips, and before he knew it the taste of Finno’s seed was no longer foreign on his tongue, and he let Finno drag him inside through the window and lay him down upon his bed.

“It was you,” he realized as Finno stretched out beside him, fitting perfectly in the crook of his arm. “Last night—you _were_ there—you...you _heard_ —”

“I thought it only fair to return the favor, melindo,” Finno murmured, tracing the curve of Maitimo’s cheek with such tenderness he thought he might melt. “And now...”

Maitimo sobbed again, gave up the battle he’d been fighting with himself, and pulled his Findekáno into a kiss.

Finno met him eagerly, rolling on top of him, hands tangling in Maitimo’s hair, making sweet noises into his mouth, sounds of delight _just for him_ —

And then Findekáno ground down against him, their cocks brushing, and Maitimo threw his head back in ecstasy. Nothing—no fantasy, no dream could compare to this. Findekáno moaned obscenely, seemingly just as affected as he, and rutted against him once more.

“Oh, Russo, oh _fuck_ ,” Finno babbled. “Russo— _Russo_ —”

“W-wait,” Maitimo croaked, though it physically pained him when Finno stilled, that glorious friction ceasing. “Fin...we—we can’t...”

“Why _not_?” Finno demanded, pressing his forehead against Maitimo’s. “We—we already have come together, and now I can touch you, my every wish fulfilled—please, _please_ , Russo, I need you, I might die if I can’t—”

Oh, but that, Finno _begging_ him, that was simply too much. Maitimo forgot whatever protests he had and dragged him down for another kiss, his free hand reaching between them to press their cocks together—

And _oh_ , but surely this was a dream too sweet to be real, he thought deliriously as Finno twitched and spilled all over him, sending Maitimo hurtling toward his own climax. Finno sobbed with ecstacy, wriggling out of his grip that he might catch some drops of Maitimo’s seed on his tongue, and if Maitimo had not already been coming he would—he didn’t even know, but he felt dangerously close to passing out from joy and guilt and pleasure, and he realized both he and Finno were crying as they came down from their high.

Finno collapsed on top of him, breathing heavily, and Maitimo could not but wrap his arms around him, never wanting to let go. He could hardly believe any of this had happened, but Finno was here, and he could not leave. Maitimo _had_ him, after all these years of wanting him, and though he knew he would soon come to his senses, for now he wept with relief and release and it was with Finno’s hands in his hair that he drifted into a light and sated sleep.

* * *

Though Russandol dipped quickly into slumber, Findekáno found he could not rest his mind. His hröa thrummed with happiness, and each of Russo’s breaths beneath him lifted him higher and higher. Slowly, he disentangled his left hand from Russo’s hair, sliding it beneath his shirt and revelling in the feel of that smooth, fair skin.

Oh, but he loved Russandol so.

Only the day before he had despaired of ever finding his desires fulfilled, but now—now Russandol was with him, their bodies pressed together, the evidence of their mutual want plain upon their skin and yet lingering on Findekáno’s tongue. With great wonder he gathered more of Russo’s seed and lifted it to his lips, scarcely able to believe this was real.

Russandol stirred, his eyes fluttering open as Findekáno licked his hand clean. Findekáno flushed all over, his desire rising once more, but after a moment of amazement across those fair features, Russo scrambled into a sitting position that pushed Findekáno back.

“What was that for?” he pouted, reaching out to his beloved, but Russandol flinched, and he froze.

“Finno, I—I’m sorry,” Russandol croaked, looking as if he were trying to blush with embarrassment and pale in horror all at once, giving him a strange and blotchy complexion. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have, we shouldn’t have—have done this, any of this, we can’t, this isn’t—”

All at once the joy Findekáno had felt dissipated into cold horror. Had—had he misjudged, somehow? Had he—did Russo not want this, want _him_ , after all? Did Russo not love him like he thought— Had he _forced_ Russandol into this—

Oh, Eru. Findekáno was a monster worse than any of the Dark Vala’s twisted creations. To trick Russo into something like this, to invade his privacy and then take advantage of him as he had—

“No, no,” he choked out, “ _I’m_ sorry—I should never have—pressured you into something you didn’t want—oh, Russo, I—” He blinked furiously, trying not to cry. He didn’t deserve to wallow in self-pity, not after what he’d done.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I just—and this is no excuse—I just, I thought maybe you loved me too, and—if you never wish to speak to me again, I understand, I—”

“Wh...Finno?” Russandol whispered, and he leaned _toward_ him, not away. “You—you _love_ me?”

“I love you,” Findekáno cried, and despaired because this was _not how confessing that was supposed to go_ —

“But—but Finno,” and why was Russandol _looking_ at him like that, when he’d—when he...

And then Russandol was kissing him, and Findekáno did not understand what was happening _at all_ , but how could he not kiss back when those lips were everything he wanted?

He pulled back after a moment, but Russo’s hands were in his hair and he wouldn’t let him go far. Findekáno wiped his eyes and mumbled, “Russandol, I...what are you...what is this?”

“Love,” Russo whispered, and kissed him again. “Findekáno, I—of course I love you. I love you more than my heart can handle, I’ve loved you since—for years, Finno, before such a thing was—even remotely proper—a decade I have wanted you, and no one else, and I...I thought I could never have you, yet I indulged in shameful fantasies such as—the one you overheard last night—oh, Finno, I love you! What we did, I _wanted_ that, you did not pressure me into it more than in the gentlest way. But—but surely this is wrong. Surely I should not, what with our fathers, and I am older than you, and we are cousins, and yet—”

He said all this, and would have said more, but all Findekáno could hear was _Of course I love you_ , and he thought his fëa would burst free of his hröa, so great was his joy.

And Russo’s worries—they were utter nonsense, and to prove it Findekáno grabbed him and kissed him again, and despite Russandol’s _shouldn’t_ s and _can’t_ s he kissed back fervently, warm and wanting, and Findekáno knew he would do anything, _everything_ for him.

“I love you, Russo,” he murmured, pressing kisses to his neck and feeling every wondrous gasp and moan his lover made. “I love you, and—and you love me. Nothing else matters; just us. We’ll deal with whatever comes, because there is nothing I cannot do with you at my side.”

“Finno,” Russandol whispered, saying his name reverently, like a prayer. “My Finno.”

“Yours, always,” Findekáno promised. “My Russo. My love.”

Findekáno reached over to close the window, giving them utter privacy, and showed his Russo all his love—and this time, without the slightest hesitation, Russo showed him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind words for this fic <3 You are the best!!  
> Also.............keep an eye out for another Russingon PWP fic......which I will probably post tomorrow, lol ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


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